


Of Nice Girls and Days to Come (and of Not So Nice Girls and Days Long Gone)

by Lillifred



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark-ish, F/F, Mention of Necrophilia, mention of BDSM themes, morally ambigious!Molly, set before season one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:18:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4640550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillifred/pseuds/Lillifred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper really did have a thing for psychopaths.</p>
<p>For example, there was that incident when she got bored at a very posh cocktail party and decided to break into a morgue with that other young woman. Or more precisely: with the woman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Nice Girls and Days to Come (and of Not So Nice Girls and Days Long Gone)

Molly Hooper really did have a thing for psychopaths.

 

For example, there was that boyfriend who used to earn an extra to his pocket money by convincing elderly ladies that he was a long-lost relative desperately in need of a 1000 pounds for urgent medical reasons. Or 5000 pounds if the lady in question had that much to spare. Later he would make a fortune with ponzi schemes, but Molly had moved on by then. Or that other one who thought it was fun to drown, strangulate or stab his smaller sister’s pets to death. Their parents would get her a new one every time anyway.

 

And then there was that incident when she got bored at a very posh cocktail party and decided to break into a morgue with that other young woman. Or more precisely: with _the_ _woman_.

 

*

 

Molly was a sweet child. Shy, somewhat unremarkable, and _normal_. From time to time some adult would ask her what she wanted to do when she was grown up. Then Molly would put on her sweetest smile and say: “I want to work in a morgue.” That was a tad bit weird for a child her age. But apart from that? Perfectly normal. Perfectly nice.

 

*

 

The Hooper’s were a little higher up on the social ladder and very keen on establishing relationships with the right people. So they attended many important social events. By the time Molly was in her first years of university they often took her with them in hopes that she might make some useful connections of her own. Or even (hopefully!) meet her future husband.

 

Molly hated it. She was okay enough at small talk but it bored her. Why exchange meaningless niceties if you could converse about the meaning of the world with a true friend instead?

 

And she never met her husband. Who she did meet was Irene Adler.

 

*

 

“You are bored.”

Said the young woman roughly Molly’s age who looked so, so not-boring. Maybe it was the shade of her lipstick which was just a tad bit too read to be proper. Or that confident look in her eyes that seemed to be judging, sometimes disapproving, sometimes approving. And flirting, especially (it was in her head, that must have been in her head, it couldn’t be possible) when she caught Molly’s eyes.

“I am. I hoped it didn’t show so much, though. How did you tell?”

“Being bored is relative. Whatever you’re up to, it’s more boring than doing things with me, really.”

Molly didn’t doubt this a second.

”What are you thinking about?”

“Leaving this place, first of all.”

“What for?”

“Doing whatever you don’t want the world to see you doing.”

“Does that mean that we are going to kill someone?”

“No, that means that I am a lesbian and I want to take you on a date. But if your definition of a romantic date includes killing someone that can be arranged.”

“Oh… I don’t actually want to kill someone. That was just my sense of humour. Never mind.”

“I’ve guessed so. And that’s totally not what I wanted to know.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I do want to go on a date with you.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Can we break into a morgue?”

 

Of course, Molly hadn’t meant that seriously. She hadn’t. She would never – really no. Or so she had always thought at least. But when Irene had made that whish reality, she didn’t exactly object, either. She was somewhat surprised that Irene knew where the next morgue was, even more so that she knew how to pick locks and she was positively startled when she discovered that Irene carried around a lock pick in her handbag.

“I have all sorts of useful knowledge stored in my mind palace. And as a woman you should always carry all the things you might need in your handback.”

“A mind palace. Sounds like a place I’d like to visit.”

 

It was dark in the morgue and cold. Irene and Molly found a table that had just the right height to sit on so that their feet didn’t touch the ground. They settled there for a while and just talked with each other. About all the stuff in the world. About everything important.

 

“So, why do you want to work in a morgue?”

“I like dead people. I don’t like dead people more than I like living people. And I don’t like when people die. But if people are already dead, I like them that way.” Irene gave Molly a kiss on her cheek. Molly could almost feel the stain of lipstick on her skin. “Sometimes I wonder if they like me back. What do you want to do for a living?”

“I’m going to be a professional dominatrix. Turn your hobby into a career sort of thing.”

“And you’ve told me I was considering unusual career choices.”

Irene positioned herself so that Molly’s and her thighs were touching. She put an arm around Molly’s shoulders and turned her head to whisper in her ear: “What’s on your mind now?”

Lipstick stains were on Molly’s mind. Lipstick stains that she wanted in all places. On her neck. Just above her belly button. On her butt. On the inner side of her thigh. Everywhere. Oh, and she wanted to kiss Irene, but without lipstick. She wanted to leave a trail of invisible marks, only to be seen by Molly and Irene. She wanted to touch in a way that felt overworldly. She wanted to use her tongue and her fingers and her _words_ to make Irene moan, to make her come. She wanted to feel the touch of silk around her wrists and the ache of a spanking on her butt. She wanted to serve the dominatrix. She wanted to love the woman. She wanted to make love to _the woman_.

But Molly was shy. She had to say something less… outrageous. Something tame. “Dead people. Dead people are on my mind.”

“Oh, that’s why you blush? Why there’s goose bumps on your skin as if you’re cold? Why your pupils are dilated? Interesting.”

Irene rose up from the table where they sat, walked over to the cold chamber and got out her lock pick again. “In that case you should kiss a dead person.”

 

Kissing a dead man felt weird. It was cold and unrequited and somehow it felt strangely good and somehow it felt really great to know that Irene was watching her all the time. When Irene decided that she had seen enough she grabbed Molly’s wrist and kissed it.

 

“Why do you want to be a dominatrix?”

Irene licked her lips. “Because of the power that comes with it.”

“The power you have over your client when you constrain them?”

“Oh no, that’s just a game. I do enjoy playing that game. But in that constellation I get paid to play it. I fulfill my clients’ whishes after all.”

“So what kind of power do you mean?”

“People like to play these games, but they feel that they shouldn’t. They’re ashamed. My plan is to take pictures of my clients while they play. And then… I’m going to threaten to publish them. Do you have any idea what people would do to keep their secrets safe? The amount of money, the number of open doors, the being-able-to-dance-on-every-fucking-wedding-because-I’ve-got-a-goddamn-invitation – lying just at my fingertips. I just have to stretch my hand a little and all of it is mine. All the riches of the world.”

Irene pressed a kiss on Molly’s head, in her hair that smelled like strawberry shampoo with a hint of vanilla. “By the way, I just happen to be in the possession of a picture showing you kissing a corpse.”

“You can’t do that.”

“What do you mean, I can’t do that? I do have that picture of you and I can get it published.”

“No one would believe you. People don’t believe that I do morally questionable things. They would think it was photoshopped. Or I was pressured by some evil Irene Adler. Or I had a secret twin. Or anything, really.” It was true. No one ever suspected Molly. One time her father found pornographic magazines in her bedroom. In her bedroom, right under her pillow. He suspected her older brother of having put it there. But not Molly. Never Molly.

Molly smiled a very sweet smile. “I’m just too much of a nice girl to be affected by the threat of the trouble you love to cause.”

“You’re one of a kind, Molly.” At that point Molly kissed Irene. Molly’s tongue in Irene’s mouth, Molly’s hands in Irene’s hair, Molly’s leg between Irene’s thighs. When Molly let go, Irene looked desperate. Evil and dangerous, calculating and hungry for power and _smitten_ and _desperate_. It took her a moment before she spoke again.

“You’ve got that right. I love to cause trouble indeed. You don’t get to wear the crown jewels by being a nice girl.”

“How would _you_ know?” Molly Hooper was almost certain there _was_ a way to wear the crown jewels by being a nice girl. But was that what she wanted? It was so definitely possible to get Irene Adler aroused and _wanting_ by being a nice girl (if you subtracted the necrophilia and breaking into a morgue part, she _was_ a nice girl and to be honest being a nice girl was more a question of what others thought about you than a question of any moral code you truly behaved according to). And getting Irene Adler to arousal was – definitely better than wearing the crown jewels and also – much more a demonstration of power.

Instead of giving an answer Irene turned into a dominatrix. When she spoke again her voice was much more demanding.

“On your knees, nice girl.”

Molly put on her shy face again. “Oh, I’m not into that.” That was a lie; Molly was so very much into that. “But maybe you can convince me one day.” Turned out there was a thing Molly was even more into than being Irene’s plaything: that look of longing and plain, unresolved desire in Irene’s eyes, the way Irene looked when she had a whish not granted.

 

One day, Irene. One day.

 

*

 

For her master’s degree Molly went to the USA. At first she didn’t know anyone and because having a few friends would be nice and also because being kind was just her thing she went around the neighborhood and treated her neighbors with homemade cake. One of her closest neighbours was a young woman with short blonde hair, a heartwarming smile and too many first names – Alexandra Guinevere Rose – but for her friends it was just Alex.

 

Alex lived in a small but very cozy flat with a plush sofa, plush pillows, cuddly toys and posters showing sunny holiday locations. Molly instantly liked the place. She came over more and more often, to the point that it felt more like she was living at Alex’s than at her own place. At least when Alex was actually at home. She often spent days or even whole weeks somewhere else without explaining where she went to.

It would take months for her to realize that it wasn’t very personal a place. None of the cuddly toys looked old enough to be a keepsake of Alex’s childhood. There were no photos of people or postcards or anything else to suggest that Alex truly had a personal connection (other than the fact that she liked the aesthetics) to any of the things she decorated her flat with.

 

After a while Alex started hitting on Molly and to ask her out on dates. Alex insisted on paying for everything – restaurants, cinema, the zoo – and Molly let her because Alex really seemed like she was able to afford it (okay, that one time Alex took Molly on a weekend trip to Disneyworld might have been a little over the top). Molly wondered how. Alex clearly didn’t work any of the typical nine-to-five jobs, not with her being away so often. Was it something creative? She seemed the type, but she would talk about her work if she was an artist or a writer, wouldn’t she? The money couldn’t come from her parents either. She did mention them once, but she certainly wasn’t close to them and they weren’t particularly well-off.

The longer their friendship lasted, the more guilty Molly felt for taking so many benefits from Alex. Alex was definitely flirting, but Molly wasn’t sure if she could return the feelings in the same way. She really liked Alex a lot. Being with her was so much fun and felt so secure. But she just wasn’t Molly’s type at all. Molly’s type was way more of a psychopath and way more deadly. (There was one time when she did feel a hint of sexual attraction towards Alex – that was at the zoo, when Alex told her that she had once fought a tiger in India – it did took Molly a moment to realize that this was just too good to be true and probably a joke or a metaphor she didn’t quite get.)

 

*

 

One evening they decided to go out dancing to a club that played swing music. Neither of them could dance accordingly, but there was a very basic beginner’s course and they were willing to learn. It was awkward, but it was the funny kind of awkward. They really enjoyed themselves. Then they went home they decided they wouldn’t bother going to their separate homes even though they were very close together and just stay at Alex’s. Before they went to sleep they cuddled up a little and then Alex started to kiss Molly.

Molly turned her head away. “I’m so sorry. I like you. Really. A lot. But I’m not so sure if I want our relationship to go that direction.”

“Never mind. You know, getting into a sexual relationship with a professional assassin is probably no safe choice anyway.”

Molly was startled. She hadn’t thought that… No, that was not possible. Not Alex! But the thought of Alex knowing how to shoot or knowing how to poison someone or keeping all of this secret and being the most cheerful person ever despite actually being deadly, or of Alex maybe having fought a tiger for real – that was too damn attractive. It turned Molly on as fuck.

Molly grinned at Alex. “Changed my mind.” Then she kissed her.

 

*

 

“I never thought you would react that way. I’m not supposed to tell anyone in the first place and I really shouldn’t have told you. But with you my secret is safe. I know that. You really are not a person who talks about other people’s secrets. I really wanted to tell you about the work I do. It’s such a big part of me. I felt like you should know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“You are such a kind and charitable person. I thought you would run away. I thought you would never bring me cake again.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I love bringing people cake.”

“Because – I do believe I do it for the right reasons – but killing people, that’s just a thing a good person is not supposed to do. Even if there’s no other option, it’s still kind of wrong. So I thought a genuinely good person like you wouldn’t be so charitable towards someone like me.”

“You’re wrong.”

“How so?”

“Being charitable isn’t good or bad. It just is. Most people are somewhat charitable. They are nice and give things to members of their family, friends, lovers, people they like, people who they think deserve nice things the most. But that’s not what really being charitable is like. I’m not like that. I’m more than that. I like to give good things to everyone. No matter the outcome. I don’t care. I just like to watch what people do with my gifts. They do all sorts of things. It’s interesting.”

 

And this was what happened when Molly went to bed with Alex: She gave her a gift and she liked to watch what Alex did to the gift and what the gift did to Alex.

 

*

 

And then, one day, Alex said the words that changed everything:

 

“I want to be normal.”

 

“You are normal, Alex. You watch series on Netflix with me for whole afternoons. That’s normal. You take me out for coffee dates and picnic dates. We live together and we love each other and whenever we have time for that we cook dinner together. That’s normal as well. You gave me a self-made card for Valentine’s Day and you remembered my favourite type of chocolates. You share my weird sense of humour and actually laugh when I try to make a joke. You write Harry Potter femmeslash fanfiction and get ridiculously happy about every single comment you get. What’s not normal about that?”

“I’m an assassin. That’s not normal.”

“Yes, it’s not. And yet you’re normal. You’re normal and not normal at once.”

“You think so? I think being not normal spoils the joy of being normal. I’m an assassin all the time. When we cuddle up and watch TV, I’m an assassin. When I laugh about your jokes I’m an assassin. It’s at the back of my mind all the time and I want a break from that. A new life. A new identity. Just imagine: a new life without guilt. Without that type of worry. You know, these past years I wondered what it would be like to have a normal job. Nurse, maybe. My own house. A place I won’t ever have to leave because I got myself into too much trouble in that city or in that country. A true home. Pets. Children. A husband.”

“So a wife is not normal enough for you now?”

“I didn’t mean to say it that way. What I meant to say was husband or wife.”

“You did say husband.”

Molly didn’t believe that Alex really intended to say husband or wife. Alex was too much of a perfectionist. She never failed at anything. When she got the order to assassinate someone, she was precise, punctual and cleaned up afterwards. None of her missions had ever failed. She told Molly that she knew how to shoot someone in the stomach without killing them. When she wanted to shoot a coin mid-air she freaking did so. When she made a chocolate cake for Molly’s birthday she spent hours in the library searching for the perfect recipe and the resulting cake – it was easily the most delicious thing Molly ever tasted. Once she skipped sleep (and sex with Molly) five nights in a row to fill every single femmeslash prompt in a popular kink meme.

Now, when she said that she wanted to be normal, she meant normal. The heterosexual, voting Republican or Tory type of normal.

Molly didn’t know why this bothered her so much. Alex would have to break up with Molly anyway. Alex was about to get herself a new identity. One there she couldn’t keep a trace of her past. A past that included Molly.

 

*

 

“You kill people because they deserve to die.”

“Who am I to decide who deserves to die? I kill people because I enjoy the thrill of it.”

It sounded like a lie, but Molly wasn’t sure.

 

*

 

And this was what happened when Molly went to bed with Alex: She gave her a gift and she knew it wasn’t hers anymore and she knew Alex wouldn’t keep it forever.

 

But Alex was happy to receive it, as long as it lasted. She never told Molly when exactly she planned to disappear with her new identity. She just kept laughing about Molly’s jokes, taking her on dates and having sex with her. Their life went on as if nothing had happened.

 

*

 

One night Alex fucked Molly, but it wasn’t enough. “I will miss you,” she said. “I will miss you. You and my guns. And nothing else.” And she reached for the gun that she always kept in her bedside table. With one hand she held Molly right where her heart was. With the other hand she pointed her gun at Molly. It was logical. It was a connection. Between the two things she would miss. Her gun. And Molly. “You never loved me,” she said, her voice struggling with held back tears. “I don’t know who you love, but it’s not me. You want someone who loves the thrill of the fight. I’ve fought that I am such a person, a long time ago. But I’m really not. I don’t want to be.” She sobbed and she put back the gun and she sobbed more.

 

*

 

“You’ve pointed a gun at me. During sex. I am leaving.”

These were the last words Molly Hooper ever said to Alexandra Guinevere Rose Allington. Alex, who would be married and normal and motherly _one day_.

 

*

 

Molly had a _one day_ of her own to get back to. Sure that was a _one day_ when she’d be tied up, possibly gagged and beaten – but it was also a _one day we will rule the world together_ type of _one day_.

 

One day Irene Adler would beg for her to stay. Twice. And Molly Hooper would go and be a nice girl wherever she wanted.

 

*

 

Molly Hooper never expected to attend Mary Morstan’s wedding. Despite that being a day of very mixed feelings for her, she was glad to see that there was one thing Alex Allington wanted but didn’t achieve: to live a normal life. Otherwise she wouldn’t have ended up in a threesome with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson of all people.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, this is unbetaed, I spend the whole day writting it and just wanted to get it published as soon as possible. If you spot any mistakes, please tell me.  
> This story kind of helped me out of writer's block. It's been a long time since I've invesed so much time in a story.


End file.
